


Firebird

by LavenderProse



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Post-Rostelecom Cup, cisflip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 23:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11565867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: "It's almost like a marriage proposal," Viktoria says, and the thing is—the thing is, if Viktoria wanted it to be, Yuri would make it one. If Viktoria had asked, "Isthat a marriage proposal?" Yuri would have unhesitatingly said yes. She would have lowered herself onto a knee before Viktoria in Fukuoka Airport, the officially certified least romantic place in the world, and saidViktoria Konstantinovna Nikiforova, please—please—(Yuri doesn't know if Viktoria will stay. She wants her to. She wants her to want to. But she doesn't want to be the only thing holding Viktoria here. Life for Yuri Katsuki is, as always, Hard.)Mandarin translation by inoripooh





	Firebird

The schedule of the Rostelecom Cup has the men and ladies performing their short programs on alternating days, then combining on the last day for the free program and the medal ceremonies. Yuri and Viktoria spend the first day of the competition sitting in the crowd for Yura's short program—it's impressive, and it's come a long way since the Onsen on Ice and the blurry videos Mila sent Viktoria from the back row of bleachers in the Saint Petersburg Ice Palace. Viktoria spends the whole thing with her hand clamped over Yuri's thigh, fingers digging in, as they wait to see what Yura will do with his newfound abilities.

"He's doing well," Viktoria rules finally, as Yura's music ends and he makes his way off the ice. Viktoria turns her head to the side, winks. "Not as good as you'll do though, Birdie."

Yuri blushes. It's still baby-new, this thing with her and Viktoria. After the scene in Beijing—and the subsequent deduction in points that knocked her down from first to second place below an American, Safiya Nazari, with whom Yuri had shared a rink (Although not a coach) before leaving Celestino—there have been several monumental changes to her life. She has slept almost every night for the last three weeks in Viktoria's bed, with Viktoria's arm around her waist and Viktoria's hand over her belly. Viktoria's apple-scented hair has fallen into her face during the night, Viktoria's thigh has squeezed up between hers, Viktoria's sleeping mouth has pressed against the back of her neck.

Twice, she has felt Viktoria's hand between her legs and once she has felt the weight of Viktoria's breasts in her hands.

"Go ahead and do it," Viktoria had told her, as Yuri stared at her tits with a kind of almost-alarmed satisfaction, like she had bitten off more than she could chew. She arched her back closer to Yuri's face, and lifted Yuri's hand to the swell of her right breast. Yuri throbbed. "I know you want to."

"Oh, um," Yuri's other hand lifted of its own accord. "I—um, if you're—"

"I am," Viktoria whispered, slowly, pushing Yuri's hair behind her ear. "Please, darling, I want you to."

Yuri pressed Viktoria back into the mattress and pushed Viktoria's breasts up and together, took her nipple into her mouth and sucked until it was red and swollen. Viktoria made a sound that Yuri will remember in her _grave_.

And it's not that Yuri doesn't have experience with these kinds of things. She's a little tired of being assumed a virgin, actually, because she isn't and hasn't been since she was Yuri Plisetsky's age. Yuri's college reputation earned her a Christmas during which two different people gave her novelty condoms and Phichit gifted her with a T-shirt that read "I like my women how I like my glasses—sitting on my face." It makes her very glad that her parents both cannot read English and don't feel the need to go looking around in her closet for anything.

(Mari did, though, and she spent the next five minutes _losing her absolute shit_ with glee as she rolled around on Yuri's bed, clutching her stomach.

"YES," Mari cried. "YES, GO LITTLE SIS. Oh my God, I'm gonna _puke_ —holy _shit_ , Yuri—"

"I hate you," Yuri hissed from around the pillow she was clutching, jackknifed into the corner of her bed. "I hate you so _mu-u-ch._ ")

But this is _Viktoria Nikiforova_. This is the woman Yuri has been in love with half her life. Yuri Katsuki is not attracted to Viktoria because her type is tall, blue-eyed blondes—Yuri's type is tall, blue-eyed blondes because of Viktoria. Sixteen-year-old Yuri laid in her bed and stared up at posters of Viktoria Nikiforova, put the handle of a hairbrush between her legs and thought about what it would be like to run her fingers through Viktoria's hair. Yuri's quote-unquote gay awakening hadn't been _I want to put my mouth on a girl's tit_ it was _I want to put my mouth on Viktoria Nikiforova's tit (And then I want to know what her lap smells like)._ Yuri _didn't_ have a picture of Viktoria Nikiforova above her bed so that it was the first thing she saw every morning because teenage Yuri had _exactly zero chill_ regarding platinum blonde Russian figure skaters—and if she did, it definitely wasn't the shoot Viktoria did for _Russian Vogue_ , that shot of her wearing the unbuttoned tuxedo jacket with nothing underneath and the entire taut plain of her stomach stretched out, nipples just barely covered, the look in her eyes and the set of her jaw saying _I'll step on you and you'll like it_.

Please step on me, Yuri never thought in the direction of the magazine layout that she did not have taped to her ceiling.

It's no mystery, then, that this is all just a little astounding still. It's still astounding, and Yuri knows that it will be difficult to go back to the way things were when Viktoria goes back, after everything is said and done.

After the short program, they sneak down into the athlete area.

"Your training with Lilia is really working in your favor," Viktoria tells Yura, who's gritting his teeth and trying to break a cat ear headband between his hands. Viktoria glances at Yuri and adds, "Isn't it, Birdie?"

"Oh, um…yes." Yuri gently takes the headband from his hands. "I mean, your inexperience with the form is obvious, but—I think only an experienced ballerina would notice?"

"Fuck off, Katsudon!" Yuri roars. "Not everyone can be some sort of fucking ballet prodigy! Fuck!"

Yuri smiles. "What a nice thing to say, Yurio."

Next to her, Viktoria dissolves into laughter.

"I'm gonna jump off the ROOF," Yura shrieks to the rafters. "Between you two and JJ, I don't even want to _live_ on this planet anymore!" He storms away, but pauses to turn back and shout, "Good luck on the short program tomorrow, or whatever! I'm gonna win gold and I guess it wouldn't suck if you did too!"

Yuri beams at Yura's back, and then feels her phone vibrate in her pocket.

"It's Mari," she tells Viktoria, and answers the phone because it could be an emergency.

And it is.

"You have to go back to Japan," Yuri is telling a distressed Viktoria ten minutes later, hands firm on her arms. "Vika, please. What if he—" she can't say _What if he dies_ , because the words physically won't come out of her mouth. _What if he dies like Vicchan. What if he dies without you there and you never get to say goodbye to that one being in the world that you think of as your own, as your_ child _—_

"I can't," Viktoria says, hand pressed to her brow. She's upset, and Yuri knows it, but she's trying to make it out like she's irritated and not _physically terrified_. Yuri doesn't know why Viktoria does this, or even why she feels the _need_ to do it, but Yuri thinks it might be for similar reasons to the ones that lead Yuri to cry in bathrooms and closets, but never in front of anyone. Never where anyone can see. "The competition hasn't even started—how are you supposed to perform without a coach?"

"I know my routines," Yuri says. "I can do them myself. I don't need a—"

"I _know_ you don't," Viktoria snaps. "But what you _do_ need is someone to do things like negotiate your rink time for practice. These people are vultures and—"

"Hey, what's going on with you two?" Yura asks from closer than Yuri thought he was, and they turn to see him standing there with Yakov and Lilia, all three looking perplexed.

"Yakov," Viktoria gasps, and _clings_.

Later, Yuri will wonder how much of this was Viktoria trying to appeal to Yakov's paternal instincts towards her, and how much of it had to do with Viktoria actually needing the comfort of her psuedo-father in a moment that must have felt like the entire world was coming down around her ears. Yuri will also never ask, because she doesn't think Viktoria knows either.

Either way, Yakov agrees to become her coach for the next three days.

And Vika goes back to Japan that night.

Mila Babicheva finds her the following afternoon sitting in the athlete area with her earbuds in and foot anxiously swinging, waiting for the Group Three practice to begin. Mila already has her hair tied up into its elaborate braids, revealing both the long and slim line of her neck and the carefully-shaved undercut that normally lives hidden underneath her thick hair. Viktoria once told Yuri that Mila had her hair down her back for her entire junior career, and only recently cut it in a fit of teenage rebellion. Viktoria smiled as she told the story. Yuri thinks it probably reminded Viktoria of herself.

"Hey," says Mila, and Yuri wonders for one sickening moment if _this_ is going to happen again—someone prettier, more talented, more successful plays at being a friend for the express purpose of sliding their way into Yuri's head to sap her confidence.

_I love your costume_ , is probably what comes next. _It hides your hips so that they don't look so big._

"Hey," Mila says instead, and tugs at Yuri's arm. "I'm sorry, but the fire alarm is going off—come on, we've gotta leave."

Yuri's eyes go big and she lets Mila drag her out of the building by her hand, both of their skate guards clicking frantically. Everyone has gathered across the street from the rink, listening as the alarm blares and frowning at the building. Mila finds Yakov, who's standing in a sea of other coaches and skaters—including Yura, who's looking very disgruntled at being here on his day off.

"Some idiot pulled the fire alarm, I bet," Yura tells them, hands tucked far into the pockets of his coat. "What a fucking moron. Now the fire marshal has to sweep the entire building."

"Ugh," says Mila, and she and Yuri stand there with their arms crossed and their thighs slowly going numb underneath their tights.

"Mila," says Yakov after a moment. Yuri doesn't know if Yakov knows that she speaks Russian—so she doesn't know if he means for her to understand what he says next. "Don't either of you have coats? You're going to freeze, it's negative fifteen."

"Our coats are inside," Mila says. "Didn't you ever have a fire drill in school, Yakov? Don't grab anything, just leave?"

Yakov growls and tosses his head, glancing back and forth in the crowd. In a booming, carrying voice he demands, "Can someone get these ladies some blankets? For God's sake!"

Yuri isn't sure how, but several blankets are located and distributed. When Yuri is handed hers, she bows slightly at the waist and says, "Thank you, sir," and wraps it around her shoulders. Yakov stares at her like a baby bird fallen out of its nest—like she is strange and fragile and he doesn't know what to do with her.

"Have you heard from Viktoria?" Mila asks her, probably more to get her mind off of her own freezing legs than anything.

"She called me when her plane landed in Japan," Yuri mumbles, burying her face in the bundle of blanket under her chin. "But, um, not since then. I don't know if that's…good or bad."

"Well, you know what they say," says Mila. "No news is good news." To Yuri's surprise, she produces a pack of cigarettes from somewhere on her person and opens it, pulling a lighter and a half-smoked cigarette out. She lights it and glances at Yuri, raises an eyebrow, offers the pack. "Do you smoke?"

"No," Yuri says slowly. "And neither should you."

Mila rolls her eyes and slowly takes a drag, cigarette between the first two joints of her right index and middle fingers. "They're menthols, okay? Relax."

"How long have you been smoking for?" Yuri asks her, instead of replying to that.

"Only a few months," Mila mumbles, not looking at her as she wiggles her cigarette with her thumb to knock off the ash. "My boyfriend smokes. Most Russian guys do. So…"

Yuri nods. "You want to look cool in front of him. Yeah. My sister smokes and one time I stole one because I wanted to…well, let's just say she wasn't happy."

"Vika smokes, you know," Mila tells her, coy, face half-hidden by her smoking hand.

Yuri narrows her eyes, wondering if this is the start of one of those mind games. "No," is all she says, because she isn't sure how to respond otherwise. She would know if Viktoria smoked. Her clothes would smell like tobacco, or Yuri would have caught her at some point, or her mouth would—

"Yeah," Mila chuckles, nodding. "She does."

"I've made out with smokers before," Yuri tells her, as if that will prove anything. "Viktoria doesn't smoke."

Mila turns her head to grin, and Yuri realizes what she's said.

"Not that—"

"The whole world saw that kiss in China, you know," Mila says. "I'm not surprised to hear you've made out—just surprised to hear you be so blunt about it. But good on you." Mila tilts her head and takes another drag. The butt has almost reached her fingers. She seems almost contemplative. Yuri keeps having to remind herself that the woman in front of her is only eighteen years old.

"Does she really smoke?" Yuri mumbles, frowning, because she's spent half her life trying to convince Mari to quit—she isn't sure she would be any more successful with Viktoria, although she knows herself and knows that she'd hate herself for being unable if she couldn't.

Mila licks her lips, tilts her head to the side. Her eyes are on a point over Yuri's shoulder, and it takes her a moment to make sound emerge from her moving mouth. "She does. Not…often, but she—I've seen her. She's careful about it, and she doesn't really do it where other people can see her. Yakov caught her once and I thought he was going to _crucify_ her."

Yuri glances at Yakov, who's standing ten feet away and can clearly see Mila's lit cigarette in her hand. He doesn't look happy, but he never does, and Yuri doesn't think that his current unhappiness is necessarily linked to Mila's smoking.

"But he's okay with you doing it?" Yuri says, turning her head back to Mila and frowning at her from behind those parts of her hair that are falling out of their twist. Viktoria usually does her hair. Yuri can do it herself, but she has no idea how Viktoria gets it so tight and neat. She's going to have to redo the whole thing before her program.

Mila frowns at the cigarette. Shrugs. "I'm not Viktoria Nikiforova."

Yuri takes the cigarette out of her hand and crushes it below her boot. She also yanks the rest of the pack out of Mila's hand and crumbles it up in her own. "No, you're not."

"Hey!" Mila's expression is shocked and irritated in equal measure. "That pack was four hundred rubles!"

Yuri pulls a five hundred ruble bill out of her pocket. "Here. Keep the change. And don't use it to buy more."

Mila clicks her teeth together. "You're not my mom, you know. I barely even know you."

"I know that you're a talented young skater with a very bright future ahead of you. I may not know you, but I'd still kick your ass from here to Vladivostok if you ruined all of that by fucking up your lungs before you're twenty-five."

Across the street, the all clear sounds from the rink. Yuri tosses the crumbled remains of the cigarette pack into the snow, and crosses.

She ends up in third after the short program, below Sara Crispino and Mila. Again, Mila finds her in the athlete area with her earbuds in—this time, Mila taps her shoulder and waits for her to look up, to take them out. Viktoria texted her fifteen minutes ago to let her know that Makkachin will be released from the vet in the morning, and Yuri has been letting the relief wash over her like a cool wave. It doesn't change much. She is still alone in Russia. Coachless at the competition that will decide the rest of her life—or so it feels like.

Still, it takes a weight off her shoulders, from somewhere. Makkachin is well. Viktoria still has her baby. No matter what happens, Viktoria won't be alone when she goes back to Russia. Yuri takes comfort in that idea.

When Mila taps on her shoulder, Yuri pops one bud out of her ear and raises an eyebrow.

"You did really good today," Mila tells her. She's wearing street clothes now, warm and thick fabrics that make her look softer and younger than she did in her costume. Her hair is down now, and underneath a large wool hat. "No hard feelings about earlier, right?"

Yuri has to actually think for a moment before the memory will surface. "Oh. No, of course not. That was, um…out of character for me. I'm sorry."

Mila tilts her head, contemplative. "Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before, you know. I mean, I've been yelled at, but…not out of care. Does that make sense?"

After a moment, Yuri nods. "Yeah. It does."

Yuri scrapes into third place, and the final, by the skin of her teeth. She beats out a Canadian by two points, and only because the Canadian fell on her butt. Above her on the podium are Mila in first and Sara in second—Yuri looks up at Mila on the topmost tier and receives the smallest smirk, and a wink.

"I'll see you and Vika in Barcelona," she says, and hauls Sara with her off the podium and into a victory lap around the rink. Yuri clutches her bronze medal to her chest and wonders if Viktoria would deign to accept it as a keepsake, a memory of her time spent in Japan to go back to Russia with her when she leaves.

Yuri's flight leaves Moscow early the next morning. Half of her carryon is full of things that Vika forgot in her rush to leave the country—there is a hairdryer, a shirt, two different earrings, a laptop charger and the lingerie set that Yuri watched her discard the evening after they arrived in Moscow. Yuri carefully folded the panties—silvery-shimmery lace that sit on Viktoria's hips like they were painted on—and put them low in the carryon where Yuri wouldn't be worried about them accidentally popping out. She did the same to the bra, but not before pressing it to her nose and inhaling deep. Viktoria would probably be creeped out. Yuri's a little creeped out at herself. But the soft, slopping padding of Viktoria's bra—which takes her Bs up to Ds, and only Yuri and a handful of other people in the world know this—smells just like her, and Yuri can imagine, just for a moment, that she is pressing her nose somewhere against Viktoria's breast, skin warm against her face and Viktoria's hand gentle on her shoulder.

Maybe, whispers a part of Yuri's brain, she'll leave behind a bra before she leaves. Maybe she'll leave it on the bedroom floor, because she's so beautifully forgetful, and maybe it will smell like her for awhile. Maybe it will be enough.

When Yuri's flight touches down in Fukuoka nine and a half hours after it took off in Moscow, she honestly isn't expecting Viktoria to be there. The last thing she's expecting, actually, is Viktoria and Makkachin sitting at the gate of international arrivals, waiting for her. Considering her shock, and the jetlag, and the fact that it's only been just over seventy-two hours since she's seen Viktoria and she already feels like a woman lost in a desert, she can't be much blamed for the things she says.

"Please stay with me until I retire," she says to Viktoria, and it's something that will keep her awake at night for weeks to come. She doesn't mind that she is taking Viktoria away from Russia. The Russian army could march on Hasetsu to retrieve their Living Legend, and Yuri would stand unflinching before them—but only if Viktoria wants her to. The only joy in smuggling Viktoria out from under the FFKK's nose comes from Viktoria squeezing her hand and whispering _Run faster_.

But if Viktoria dug in her heels, Yuri would let her go.

"It's almost like a marriage proposal," Viktoria says, and kisses her hand and Yuri feels warmth like she has never felt bloom over her. The thing is—if Viktoria wanted it to be, Yuri would make it one. If Viktoria had asked, " _Is_ that a marriage proposal?" Yuri would have unhesitatingly said yes. She would have lowered herself onto a knee. She would have genuflected herself before Viktoria in Fukuoka Airport, the officially certified least romantic place in the world, and said _Viktoria Konstantinovna Nikiforova, please—please—_

Then Viktoria says, "I wish you would never retire," and it's not exactly _Let me stay with you forever_ —the words always trying to claw their way out of Yuri's throat, no matter where they are and no matter what time of day. Nor is it, however, Viktoria digging in her heels. And that, Yuri supposes, will have to do.

They return to Yu-Topia, and Yuri's mother feeds them and coos over her bronze medal. It's practically a consolation prize, even compared to the silver medal she brought home from Beijing, but Yuri's mother is a kind and wonderful woman who wants to make her children feel loved, no matter how mediocre their accomplishments.

Afterwards, they retire. Yuri drops her suitcase in her bedroom, pulls out a few items to dress herself in, brushes her teeth and then tiptoes her way down the hall and into Viktoria's bedroom. She is propped up by her pillows, reading on her phone with every lamp in the room turned towards her. Makkachin slumbers at her feet. Some of his curls have been shaved away at the point where the vet had to incise to retrieve the blockage in his throat, but otherwise he shows no evidence of his recent trauma.

"Hi," Yuri whispers, and crosses the room to hand Viktoria a pile of the things she left behind in Moscow. "These are yours. I found them in…you left them behind, in the hotel room."

 Viktoria takes them and puts them on the nightstand, but her eyes stay on Yuri's person.

"Hi," Yuri says again, nervously sliding a finger underneath the waistline of her panties. She is wearing them—blue and poodle-patterned—and the dress shirt Viktoria left in Russia which is linen-soft and smells like her. The bronze medal presses down between her breasts. She thinks about the cellulite on her thighs, and about how she has made Viktoria turn the lights off every other time they've been intimate, and about the fact that the medal on her chest is not the right color.

"That's my shirt," Viktoria whispers, and leans over to tug Yuri closer by its hem.

"You left this in Moscow, too," Yuri whispers.

" _Oh_ ," Viktoria breathes, and moves a hand up underneath it. Her fingers alight on Yuri's belly, and her muscles jump. Viktoria retraces it again, that same path from hip to bellybutton.

"Tickles," Yuri whispers.

"Mm." Viktoria's hand goes around behind her, settles in the small of her back and pulls. Yuri crawls onto the bed and straddles her. Viktoria sends Makkachin to the couch with a click of her tongue, and he curls up with his back facing the room. Viktoria's hand slides back around her waist, settles on her hip. "You look good in Chanel."

"Oh?" Yuri takes her hand and moves it up, until the warm and soft curve of her hand is against her breast. "I wouldn't know, I've never worn it before."

"I could make you used to it," Viktoria whispers, and kisses her chin. "Chanel. Dolce and Gabbana. Prada."

_I would be happy wearing dollar store T-shirts for the rest of my life if I could spend it with you_ , Yuri almost says.

Instead, she gasps raggedly against Viktoria's mouth and arches her back into the pressing heat of Viktoria's palm, the heat and sting of it between her legs. Viktoria is wearing a robe, which Yuri tugs on the cord of. It falls about her shoulders like it was engineered that way. A galaxy of freckles is revealed, stark against her skin; the red of a nipple, the fine line of her collarbone. Yuri cups a hand over her breast, a precise handful, like Viktoria Nikiforova's tits were made to fit into Yuri Katsuki's hands.

She doesn't think she will get over that initial touch—the soft firmness of Viktoria's breast in her hand, the knowledge that she is being allowed to do this once again. It will never be something she tires of, or something that becomes passé.

"Oh, oh—" Viktoria flicks open a button on the shirt. "Yuri, please—let me get at you—"

They both unbutton the shirt, Yuri from the bottom and Viktoria from the top. It falls away from her chest and stomach like so many curtains, and Viktoria seals her mouth over a nipple without any further exposition. Yuri bucks against her and wails softly. A handful of Viktoria's short hair finds its way into her fist—Yuri now pressing against her from both sides, hand to her crown and body to her face. Viktoria's mouth makes wet sounds against her skin, and Yuri presses herself down into Viktoria's lap in search of friction.

"Ahhh," Viktoria sighs against her. She presses her forehead to Yuri's neck, brows furrowed. "Oh. Oh." She kicks a leg out from under Yuri, resettles it over her thigh, and presses _up_. Yuri whimpers.

"You're—oh, that's—" Yuri falls back against the bed and catches herself on a hand. "Yes—yes, that's— _yes_."

Viktoria presses a hand down between their hips, slips her fingers underneath Yuri's panties. Her fingers are smooth, her nails short.

"Oh, Yuri." Viktoria uses her other hand to pull Yuri back by the bronze medal, to press their open mouths together again. "Yuri," she pants into Yuri's mouth. "You're so wet. I can feel it. Oh, Yuri, oh—"

Yuri mewls into her ear, moves herself down against the slick movement of Viktoria's fingers, the warm pressure of her lap, the firm suction of her mouth against her breast. Yuri lifts trembling fingers to feel Viktoria's fine-boned hand moving underneath the soft cotton of her panties, and then to grab Viktoria's wrist and hold tight.

"Vika," Yuri whimpers into her shoulder. "Oh. Oh, harder, please—"

Viktoria grasps her under the thighs and maneuvers her legs back under herself, then tilts Yuri onto her back. Yuri's legs kick up—Viktoria takes one of her feet, hosts it over her shoulder and trails kisses over the fine bones of her arch, along her ankle and down to her knee. Her eyes are almost grey now, her pupils huge, and Yuri gasps as she grabs her more firmly by the hips and tugs her along the sheets until her spread legs splay on either side of Viktoria's lap.

"Alright?" Viktoria asks at her gasp, tilting her head. She's hovering above Yuri now, and Yuri has had so many fantasies of this moment that the sensation is almost too heady.

"Yes," Yuri breathes. "Yes, I'm so alright, I'm—" she tosses her head back, yanks Viktoria against her with fingers practically clawed into her hip. With the other hand, she pulls Viktoria's head down by her crown. Viktoria pants into her mouth; Yuri whines. "Vika! Vika, _move_."

Viktoria does. She moves her hips and pulls all of Yuri's hair over to one side, sucks kisses onto Yuri's now-bared shoulder. Yuri presses her mouth against Viktoria's cheek and pants in time with her movement.

"My beautiful Yuri," Viktoria whispers, nose pressed behind Yuri's ear. "Look at you. _Look_ at you."

Yuri turns her head to pull at Viktoria's ear with her teeth. Viktoria hisses against her neck and yanks down her panties.

"Oh," Yuri says, naked against Viktoria now. The flood of warmth and friction sends her eyes back in her head and her head back into the mattress. "Oh. Oh. Faster. Oh, oh—faster—please, faster—"

The bed begins to creak against the wall. Viktoria's panting in her ear is harsh, and her movements are sloppy and frantic. Yuri has had much more skilled encounters and the extent to which it _doesn't matter_ is almost alarming. If Yuri could go back and erase every single orgasm wrung out of her by anyone other than Viktoria Nikiforova, she wouldn't even hesitate. This is all that matters. It may even be all that matters ever again.

"Can you come like this?" Viktoria asks her, smooth voice gone wispy against her throat.

"Um—just—" Yuri takes her hand and drags it down. "Two fingers. Like—like this—" She rubs a circle into Viktoria's shoulderblade, and Viktoria's fingers follow suit between her legs. Yuri's foot twitches so hard that it sends Viktoria's phone flying across the room. "Oh—oh _shit_ —"

"Doesn't matter," Viktoria says, "I'll buy a new one. Is this good? Does that feel good, Birdie? Oh—Yuri—Yuri you feel so—"

"Oh, oh, oh—" Yuri plants her feet on the bed, gasps, _gasps_. "Oh—oh—I'm close, I'm close—Vika-Vika-Vika—"

"Mmm." Viktoria is rocking both of them with the movement of her hand. She buries her face in Yuri's right breast and sucks a bruise there. " _Mmm_. Come on, love—" She takes Yuri's nipple in her mouth again. Yuri turns her face into her own shoulder and squeals, fingers digging into Viktoria's back.

Viktoria's fingers slow—she drags her mouth from Yuri's nipple up to her neck, along her jaw. Yuri turns her face down to kiss her—feels her swollen lips and her panting breaths. Her fringe falls onto Yuri's face, and she pushes it back behind her ear, trails her fingers over her prominent jaw.

"No more," Yuri whispers, stopping her hand. "Too much, too much."

Viktoria stops, slides her hand slowly away. Yuri, oversensitive, twitches, and Viktoria kisses her neck.

"Sorry," she murmurs.

"No, it's fine." Yuri holds her face in her hands, presses their foreheads together. Her head is still spinning a bit, her breath slow to catch up with her. Viktoria's fingers are damp against her back, and the bronze medal is cold against her belly. She combs Viktoria's hair back, tender, and kisses along her hairline. "What do you want me to do?"

"Lift up your knee?" Viktoria whispers against her throat, and Yuri does. She watches in something like awe as Viktoria, robe hanging off her elbows like a Goddess of some sort, hair a mess and eyes dark, rises to her knees and presses herself against Yuri's knee.

"Oh my god," Yuri whispers as she watches and feels Viktoria move, the bounce of her breasts and hair and the harsh white of her knuckles as her fingers dig into Yuri's thigh. "Vika, oh my God—you're so—"

It doesn't take long. Viktoria comes with a face that looks like laughter, and her shoulders hunch while her body shakes, and to Yuri it looks something like the birth of a star. Something beautiful and unexplainable and not to _be_ understood, just appreciated and revered. She waits for Viktoria's eyes to open, pulls her down next to her. Their heads are on the wrong side of the bed and Yuri's panties are hanging onto her by one thigh. She buries her face in Viktoria's neck and rests a hand on her belly. Her fingertips sink into thick, dishwasher blond hair.

Viktoria turns her mouth into Yuri's temple and then, after a moment, whispers, "Do you know what the tragedy of this whole situation is?"

"What?" Yuri whispers back, trying not to let her heart sink and trying not to hear Viktoria say _It's tragic that I'm going back and leaving you here and—_

"I brought the harness for my strap-on," Viktoria whispers, "But not the dildo."

Yuri shoves a hand against her face. "You're the worst." She rolls over and Viktoria, laughing, follows her. They settle with Viktoria across her back, pressing her into the mattress, and Yuri all but melts. She could get used to this. It scares her, because she could see herself wanting this for the rest of her life. She breathes deep, feels her lungs expand back towards Viktoria's stomach, and wonders if she has ever felt so utterly protected in her life.

"Maybe I can have someone mail it to me," Viktoria muses, tracing a lazy nonsense pattern on Yuri's shoulder.

"I would die," Yuri whispers into the bedspread.

"Oh, relax. It's clean." Viktoria rests her chin against Yuri's shoulder. It's bony as hell and Yuri makes no move to adjust her.

"I would _die_ ," Yuri says again.

"Come to think, it's actually brand-new," Viktoria muses. "I bought it right before I left Saint Petersburg."

Yuri very carefully doesn't open her mouth until the urge to ask _Who were you planning on using it on_ passes. In the interim, she enjoys Viktoria's sweet kisses along her shoulders, the way she swipes all her hair to one side, bit by bit, and the way she breathes.

"I can't wait for you to see it," Viktoria whispers, then.

"The dildo?" Yuri mutters, bewildered.

" _No_ ," Viktoria laughs. "Saint Petersburg. I can't wait to show it to you. It's beautiful in the summer."

Yuri's heart stalls. "You'd let me visit?" she murmurs, unsure of what this is an offer of.

"Of course," Viktoria says, easily like it should have been obvious. "I was thinking I could take you there for a few weeks, once the season is over. That way my coaching obligations won't get in the way of my need to spoil you rotten."

"Oh," Yuri whispers, and closes her eyes against the comforter. It's a comfort to know that Viktoria can see their relationship carrying on past the point where she terminates her tenure as Yuri's coach—even if the amount of time is indefinite and might only extend for a few weeks; a few months; until next season starts and Viktoria carries on with her life with her Japanese experiment nothing but a fond memory.

On the thought of memories, Yuri rolls over. Viktoria moves with her easily, and resettles herself with her cheek against Yuri's breast. The bronze medal is stuck to the skin of Yuri's sternum—she peels it away and lifts it up. They both stare at it, Yuri pensive and Viktoria with a fond, somewhat indecipherable expression on her face and a quirk to her lips. Makkachin snores, and from somewhere in the room, Viktoria's phone pings. Her breath is warm against Yuri's nipple, maintaining the arousal still heavy in her lower belly at a low, heady simmer.

"I brought you a bronze medal," Yuri whispers to her finally. "It's not—it's not great. But I want you to have it. If you'll take it?"

"Why would _I_ want it?" Viktoria mumbles, sounding genuinely perplexed.

It takes a lot of effort for Yuri not to rear back like she's been physically slapped. Instead, she blinks up at the ceiling and wills the lump in her throat away—wills away the heartbreak and the part of her that wants to switch off, that wants to go find a lightly-trafficked area to cry in. That is what the old Yuri Katsuki would have done. She is a different person now, having known Viktoria's love. She will still be a different person when it isn't hers to have anymore.

"I don't know," Yuri whispers. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Why wouldn't you want it?" Viktoria whispers, and starts up that thing she does where she runs her fingers through Yuri's hair, and combs it bit by bit off her shoulder, and then she presses her lips there and _inhales_ —

Yuri wants it for the rest of her life.

"Because for me it would be a reminder of something that wasn't," Yuri says, fingers tightening into Viktoria's shoulders, "but for you, maybe it would be—I wanted it to be a…reminder of something that _was_."

Viktoria pulls back, and she has the most beautifully bemused expression on her face. She smiles, a dazed and gentle thing, and tucks a hand up against Yuri's cheek, fingers curling behind her jaw and thumb tracing over her lip. "Why would I need a reminder when I'll have you?"

Yuri can't help it—the tears spill.

"Yuri," Viktoria whispers, and the gentle expression turns alarmed all at once. Both hands are on Yuri's face now, thumbs pressed to cheekbones. "Darling. Yuri, what is it? Yuri, please. Please tell me."

"I don't know," Yuri blubbers, and blinks up at the ceiling. "I don't know, I just—I love you, and you—you say things like that, and they make me think—they let me believe you'll stay. And you won't go back to Russia, even though I know you have to. I know your whole life is there, and you never made me any promises, but sometimes—"

"Yuri, Birdie, Sweetheart, _Yuri_ —" Viktoria presses frantic kisses to her cheeks, jaw, neck, nose. "Yuri, I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere. _Yuri_. Don't you know? Haven't I told you?"

"Told me what?" Yuri sobs.

"That you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

It takes a moment for it to sink in—Yuri's tears are slow to stop, and she picks a spot of unoccupied wall to stare at while her emotions try to jumble together into something vaguely coherent. Viktoria is patient, rubbing her back and playing with her hair.

"I love you, too," Viktoria whispers against her shoulder, once she's sufficiently calm. She kisses there, slow. "I love you so much. I'm yours. I'm yours for as long as you want me."

"I'll want you forever," Yuri says, because she isn't able to catch the words on their way out of her mouth.

"Then forever is exactly how long I'll stay," Viktoria whispers. Her eyes are like the reflection of the sky on a sheet of ice. Yuri blinks up at her, and it's a little bit like trying to stare at the sun.

For a moment, she allows herself to believe it.

"Let's sleep," Viktoria murmurs. Kisses Yuri's cheek. "Come on, Birdie, let's go to bed. I'm tired. You'll feel better once you've slept."

They curl up together under the blankets, naked. Yuri has never slept completely naked with somebody before. It's oddly soothing, to feel all of Viktoria's skin against all of hers. To be able to feel the very whorls of her fingerprints as she rests a hand on Yuri's hip and floats off into sleep. It takes a long time, but Yuri eventually joins her.

When Yuri wakes up, it's gone dawn. Viktoria is gone, but her side of the bed is warm—Yuri puts on her shirt from the previous night and follows the sound of shuffling feet and a clearing throat out into the garden, where Viktoria stands in a pair of sweat pants and a hooded jacket that may or may not have anything underneath. As Yuri slides open the door, she's shaking ash off the end of a cigarette.

"So you do smoke," Yuri mumbles, considering how to react. She knows that Viktoria doesn't owe her anything, least of all an explanation for why she does something that she has clearly been doing long before Yuri entered the picture, but it doesn't stop her from wanting one.

Viktoria turns, sighs, and flicks the butt towards the dirt. Yuri would reprimand her for it, if all of Mari's butts weren't already littering the place.

"Shit," Viktoria says, always eloquent.

"Hmm." Yuri raises an eyebrow, closes the sliding door, leans back against it. "Mila said you did. I refused to believe her. I suppose I owe her an apology."

"It's not something I do all the time," Viktoria tells her, tapping her own hip in some cession to nervous energy. "I, um—actually, I haven't done it since I got to Japan. But after what happened with Makkachin, I—your sister gave me a pack, and I didn't want to waste it, so…"

Yuri holds out her hand. Viktoria, chagrinned, retrieves the pack from her back pocket and sets it in Yuri's hand. Inside, there are three cigarettes missing, and a lighter Yuri recognizes as belonging to her sister. She puts the lighter in her pocket, vaguely considering how best to return it to Mari in a way that expresses _Never give my girlfriend cigarettes again_ , and crumples the pack in her hand before chucking it as far as it will go. It goes sailing over the bushes, past the fence and, from there, somewhere unseen on the street.

"Okay, so," Viktoria sighs, watching it go, "I deserved that."

"Would you be surprised if I told you that's not the first pack of cigarettes I've destroyed this week?" Yuri asks, and crosses the garden with arms crossed to stand in front of Viktoria. Viktoria is in slippers, and Yuri is barefoot—their height difference is higher than usual, and pronounced for their proximity.

"No," Viktoria murmurs. "I wouldn't."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Yuri asks next. "Genuinely, I'm asking."

" _No_ ," Viktoria mutters, pouting now. "It's just—it's like you, with your food. Something I do when I'm stressed. You know?"

"Food doesn't cause _cancer_ ," Yuri snaps.

"I'm pretty sure there's something in cheesy-poofs that—"

_"Viktoria_."

"I know!" Viktoria sighs. "I know. I won't do it again, okay? I promise."

Yuri rolls her eyes, relaxes from her harsh stance. She rubs the back of her neck, closes her eyes, rolls her shoulders. She feels Viktoria hesitate to put a hand on her, before feeling it on her waist, lightly rumpling her shirt. It pulls up over the apple of her hip—the breeze gives her goosebumps.

"How does a star athlete even pick up smoking in the first place?" Yuri mumbles, pressing her forehead against Viktoria's collarbone. Despite herself, she likes the way her feet look toe-to-toe with Viktoria's fuzzy slippers—they look just a little like they fit. Like this could be the rest of her life. Waking up before dawn and trying to gather energy for the day as she and Viktoria circle each other in the kitchen, Viktoria's slippers and Yuri's bare feet comfortable in their proximity, like they know they belong together.

Viktoria doesn't respond immediately, and Yuri frets that she has passed over the invisible barrier and into _None of your business, Yuri Katsuki_ territory. She's already opened her mouth to retract the question, when Viktoria speaks.

"I was the first girl Yakov ever coached, you know," she mumbles, and presses her cheek to the top of Yuri's head. "Not because he was—biased towards men, but because that was how things were. Men coached men and women coached women. It was Lilia, actually, who convinced him to take me on—because I was taking ballet lessons with her and she decided that my talents were lost on my coach at the time, and the only solution was to steal me into the clutches of her husband. I went willingly, of course. Yakov was well-known, even then."

Yuri hums in acknowledgement. Anyone who knows anything about figure skating knows Yakov Feltsman—a man arguably more famous for his coaching endeavors than his actual tenure in the sport, although he does have a healthy number gold medals won in his own right. When Yuri thinks about Yakov Feltsman and Viktoria Nikiforova, it's a little bit of a chicken versus egg situation—she isn't really sure which one she heard of first. Maybe one is just inextricably linked with the other.

Of course, her knowledge of Yakov is idle—her knowledge of Vika is constant, ever-present, overwhelming.

"I was thirteen," Viktoria says. "And there was a learning curve for both of us, Yakov and I—it was a stressful time. There were days when I didn't think he would keep me. I thought maybe I would just be some failed experiment and Yakov would go on coaching men exclusively until the end of time."

"But he didn't," Yuri whispers.

"You have to understand though, Birdie," Viktoria tells her, quite gently. "Everyone else on Yakov's roster was a man—there were four or five of us at the time. You have to understand how… _difficult_ it is for a teenage girl to be surrounded by men, most of them grown. Russian men, who have—all of these preconceived notions about masculinity, and about what it means to be a _man_ in _Russia_. It's hard, for that to be your entire life at age fourteen or fifteen—and it's even harder when you don't…really…have an interest in them."

"Ah," Yuri murmurs, because she is perhaps beginning to understand.

"It was a situation of…I couldn't beat them _or_ join them, and so I…pretended at being one of them. I started smoking, and I learned to laugh at their dirty jokes, and I wore bigger clothes and kept my hair short. I flew under the radar like that for a long time. And then—then I started winning. And suddenly they were _afraid_ of me, because I was getting more attention from Yakov than all of them put together. And I'm not saying that it was necessarily fair but—I felt vindicated. I grew my hair out long and I wore all the skirts I wanted because I _could_ , because I didn't have to _pretend_ anymore. Then, later…much later, I realized that I was still pretending, just in a different way."

Yuri swallows, hard, unsure what to say. Viktoria turns her head until her lips are against Yuri's head, and they stay like that for quite awhile.

"I think I've been pretending for most of my life, in one way or another," Viktoria whispers eventually, and Yuri's hands fly up to fist into her jacket. She thinks about the 2011 season, when Viktoria swept onto the ice at Skate Canada with her hair cut to her jaw, dressed in a pair of trousers, dress shirt and suspenders.

At the time, it was all she thought about for _weeks._

"But not with you," Viktoria whispers. "You're the first person—the first person, maybe ever, who makes me feel like I can just…be the person I'm meant to be."

"Oh," Yuri whispers, and then sniffs against the tears in her eyes.

"I'm not sure how to convince you that I'm not leaving," Viktoria whispers. "Because I know that's what you're afraid of. But I just—maybe, in some way, that will reassure you. I've never felt more myself than when I'm with you, and that has to count for something."

Yuri's arms tighten around Viktoria's neck.

"It does," she whispers.

They stay out in the garden until, with a cheery hum and a rattle of the door, Yuri's mother appears. She halts, glances once at her own daughter's bare legs, then at the top of Viktoria's jacket zipper where it has slipped down just enough to make it obvious that she _definitely_ doesn't have a shirt on, and says, "Breakfast is ready for hungry bellies! Put some pants on please, Yu-chan."

"Mama," Yuri hisses under her breath, and Viktoria laughs.

"What's that English saying? No pants, no shirt—"

"No shoes, no shirt, no service," Yuri mutters under her breath. "I _know_."

"Oh, Yuri," her mother adds, following her and Viktoria back inside. "I was also thinking we should have Hamada-san come and look at the pipes—there was an awful lot of banging last—"

"MAMA," Yuri screams, because she has known her mother for twenty-four years and the look on her face says _I know exactly what those noises were_ in any language.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter, Vicchan," says Yuri's mother. "She's so reactive."

"I want to _die_ ," Yuri hisses under her breath, in English, "Put me in a _hole_ , I'm _dead_."

Then Viktoria laughs, and Hiroko Katsuki looks at this six-foot-tall platinum blonde Russian who's taken up with her daughter like she _belongs_ there, like she's always been there—like Hiroko had watched her grow up same as Mari and Yuri, and Yuri thinks that in a way, perhaps, she _has_.

And maybe Yuri isn't the only person Viktoria doesn't have to pretend around anymore.

Maybe it is not only Yuri who keeps Viktoria here—maybe it would not only be Yuri standing in front of Viktoria should there be a marching army, and maybe Yuri doesn't have to hold the burden of being the sole reason Viktoria is staying in Japan, at least for now.

And maybe, at least for now, that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So this...definitely wasn't supposed to be so long. It also wasn't really supposed to be as much of a distraction from my other WIPs as it ended up being. It also...sort of got away from me and doesn't super make a lot of sense? Alas, however, it is a finished fic, one of which I have no posted in Quite Some Time, so I hope it's satisfactory to...someone. 
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on Tumblr under the same username, LavenderProse. I post shorter fic snippets there, and sometimes talk to people, and once in a blue moon I actually fill a prompt or two.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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